


peace like a river, long past the midnight curfew

by riverbed



Series: armistice [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, F/M, Family, Gen, Judaism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vietnam War, flashbacks/nightmares, gratuitous new york city geography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:06:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7181633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He passes 83rd, just to peer around the corner at the synagogue. An irrational fear, maybe, wanting to reassure himself that it’s still there. And it is, as imposing and institutional - as academic, as comforting - as he remembers. In the low light he can just make out <i>Adath Yeshurun</i> on the sign. He’s going to do better, he promises himself. He’s going to light a fierce fire inside his son that’ll drive him onward when he has nothing left, like he once had. He desperately wants to reignite it in himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	peace like a river, long past the midnight curfew

**Author's Note:**

> more Jewish hamilton aus are needed  
> this is the beginning of a oneshot series me and @drakelaurens are going to be collaborating on. mostly, i'm gonna be writing pre/during/immediately post-Vietnam war Alexander, and she will be writing perspectives from down the road
> 
> alex in this universe is Sephardic via the Dominican Republic, via eastern Europe, which his family fled during WWII to go to the DR, and, back far enough in the timeline, Spain. he comes to the US after getting a scholarship, meets Eliza the summer before, gets her pregnant and marries her at her family's wishes, sacrificing his college plans at least temporarily and being one of the last to enlist in the US effort in Vietnam. he comes home after the war feeling at odds with his faith and identity and family and mental health, and my portion of this ongoing project is gonna be him attempting to work through those things.
> 
> i hope you enjoy it and i appreciate comments if you do <3

_ 8 May 1975 _

Rain beats sideways against the windows. Loud enough to be gunshots, and though Alexander knows they’re not it still feels like enemy fire.

Enemy. What’s an enemy, at this point? They’ve lost the war; an enemy is a meaningless, ever-moving target.

The rain bores its way into his head. It is so hot, all of a sudden, muggy air a breeding pit for all manner of hellish insects that bite down on his skin, a violent itch until he digs his nails in hard enough to draw blood. And he’s digging out guts but then they’re not his, the blood on his hands is not his, but John’s, and he’s frantically pressing against the wound at his side as the blood seeps through the thin canvas of his shirt and Laurens’ eyes are wide fading further and further, and the air is rank and thick and the gunfire overhead is pouring down down down

“Hamilton!” Alexander bangs his head against the glass as he comes to, his head throbbing even more acutely. He blinks, vision clearing to bring Troup into focus. His beard is patchy and his skin blotched with sunburn, but his smile is as bright as ever, and Alex feels his own lips tug up to reciprocate. He removes his nails from his forearm one by one, wincing and yanking his sleeve down to cover the scratch. 

Troup inclines his head at him, concerned. “Comin’ up on your stop, if I’m right. You need me to call you a cab, brother?” Alexander shakes his head curtly. “I’d rather walk. Really,” he says, looking up to give another smile, one he hopes is more convincing. He’s feeling motionsick with the movement of the repurposed city bus, full of sweaty soldiers and barrelling along at odds with the insistent beat of the nighttime storm.

The bus lets him off at Forest Park’s southwest corner, and he stares blankly at it as it drives away. So that’s it, then. The war is over, since a week ago, and he’d managed to get out alive, more or less, despite being one of the last battalions left in Vietnam when things had gotten bad.

This part of town is quiet at night - the rain is audible as it wets the grass, pooling and sloshing once the soil has drank its fill. He walks up Park Lane till he reaches Abingdon, pausing to take in the street sign at the corner. It’s strange to see it - he hadn’t expected the numbness that washes over him as he stares at the pole with the cross streets. The last time he’d come home Eliza had picked him up. It was a night a lot like this one, actually, but colder - he remembers huddling into the bucket seat on the passenger side of her dad’s Olds, his skin clammy, staring out the window through the rain at the historic apartment buildings and mom-and-pop record shops lining Austin Street and feeling the train parallel to them shake the ground. Philip had been asleep when they’d got home, but Eliza’s mother and father had both hugged him - he thinks that’s the first time his father-in-law had ever treated him to more contact than a firm handshake.

Must have been something in his eyes.

He passes 83rd, just to peer around the corner at the synagogue. An irrational fear, maybe, wanting to reassure himself that it’s still there. And it is, as imposing and institutional - as academic, as comforting - as he remembers. In the low light he can just make out  _ Adath Yeshurun _ on the sign. He’s going to do better, he promises himself. He’s going to light a fierce fire inside his son that’ll drive him onward when he has nothing left, like he once had. He desperately wants to reignite it in himself.

He unlatches the gate to their yard and feels his feet going too fast under him up the walk. A wave of exhaustion comes over him as he looks at the front door - suddenly the bus ride, the time change, the entire war is crashing down around him, and he craves sleep like he craves air, and he  _ craves _ air, something less stifling to breathe than the hot swathe of Saigon or the polluted smog of New York, some Caribbean air, clear and crisp with the scent of ocean. Alex remembers what he counts as the last real breath he’d taken - three years ago, before he’d boarded a plane to the city. Columbia scholarship, full ride. Well. It had been a nice thought.

He fumbles his keys. The wind starts blowing as he does, rattling against the windows at the side of the house. He practically falls in his haste to get inside, dropping his duffel bag on the floor. Eliza is standing in the archway to the kitchen, holding a sleepy Philip, who rubs his eyes as he settles more comfortably into the crook between his mom’s neck and shoulder.

“God, Eliza,” Alexander says, staring at her. He doesn’t know what else to say. She smiles at him - all his dishevelment and grime and she still manages to find some good in him. He reaches out for Philip, and Eliza practically shoves him into his arms, eager to hand him off; he relishes the heft of him, wanting to feel just how big he’s gotten. “Been too long since I’ve seen you, buddy,” he says, in a futile attempt to get Philip’s attention, but he’s already nuzzled into his shoulder and fallen back asleep. Alex takes two steps toward Eliza, holds Philip secure in one arm but wraps the other round her shoulders, pulls her in to kiss her hair, her forehead. He holds her tightly until she giggles against his chest, and he pulls back, studies her expression. It’s her usual calm smile, the one that grounds him.

“I tried to keep him up,” she says, petting Philip’s hair, “but he’s not used to late nights.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s okay,” he says rather quietly, another irrational fear creeping - the idea that this moment could be broken open by anything. He adjusts a little, stepping back to hold Philip with both arms. “But do you mind if I just… sit with him for a while?”

Eliza looks up at him, smile still held fast but her eyes a little sad. She cups his cheek, kisses him. “Of course,” she says, running her thumb along his jawline. “I’d suggest a shower before you decide to come to bed, though, since I just washed the sheets.”

He smiles, registers that it makes certain muscles twinge with disuse. “Noted,” he says. She kisses the back of Philip’s head and heads up the stairs, pulling her robe around her. Alexander trods heavily into the living room. Philip sighs and smacks his lips together in his sleep as Alex settles them carefully into the oversized recliner, cradling his head, stroking the silky curls he knows will never go away, the ones Philip inherited from him. He’s dressed in Sesame Street pajamas, with slippers in the likeness of Cookie Monster to match, and smells like soap. Alexander’s too tired to think much about it but he vaguely knows there are words just out of his reach for how much he’s missed him, how much he’s longed for this. He gets the chair reclined, settles his head against the cool leather. Philip gives a little shiver so he does some gymnastics to pull a blanket from the couch over them both, and then, with the weight of his son solid on his chest, he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep. He is so grateful to be without the dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> fun not-crucial fact to this one but that sets some more of the series up nicely: kew gardens is a neighborhood in queens with a big population of both jewish people and chinese people (eliza's family!) it's important that her perspective is not lost in this either and there will be pieces from her viewpoint
> 
> the titles for this series will likely all be paul simon references
> 
> tumblr's @veryimposing don't doxx me


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